


i choose

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27823810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: "He tried to bite me!" the older man yelps, like he's the victim.Geralt side-eyes the bawd, who is looking at the younger man - the whore, obviously - with disdain. "What did I tell you about biting the customers?" she says, and Geralt is nearly amused by the whore's bright grin, dangerous and feral.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 550





	i choose

**Author's Note:**

> the only non-consensual bits are obviously bc of jaskier (none between him and geralt) and are brief/not detailed   
> this is a lil smth i wrote on my phone over the course of like... a long time and it isnt super good or anything but i still thought id share <3
> 
> twitter: queermight  
> tumblr: korrmin

Geralt could hardly believe his own ears. "What do you _mean_ , you don't have enough?" he repeats steadily, staring at the woman. She's older, almost bawds are, with beady eyes and too many rings on her fingers.

Hard to believe that she didn't have the funds for the job.

"I don't have it," she replies, shrugging like she's not at all bothered by slighting a witcher. Brave or dumb, who knew. Probably a mix of both.

He narrows his eyes. "Your rings would do fine," he says gruffly, and she puffers like a chicken, pursing her lips and folding her hands together.

"Please, would you really take what's left of my great-grandmother from me?" she asks, as if he cares.

He opens his mouth to say just that, and a few other colorful words, feeling loose and bold because _fuck_ , humans couldn't be trusted and he _knew_ that but he'd done the job, he deserved the promised payment, but before he can say much of anything:

"Fuck _you_ , fuck your _mother_ , fuck your—"

The voice is muffled, down the hall, but no less loud, spoken with true rage. Geralt doesn't miss the twitch of the bawd's mouth, evident displeasure at the outburst. For interrupting or something else, he isn't sure.

"Excuse me," she says, but he's already moving before she can take a step, rushing down the hall. Her squeak sounds like a mouse. "That is—"

But it's too late; he throws the door open and his stomach twists at the sight. Witchers are hardly saints, that's what the rumors say and Geralt would have to agree, but he's always been adamant about never forcing himself on another, no matter the circumstances.

If even he, the Butcher of Blaviken, could find a willing bed partner, well, there was no excuse for the scene in front of him. A man, barely, sandwiched to the bed under a much older man.

He didn't look scared as much as furious.

"He tried to _bite_ me!" the older man yelps, like he's the victim.

Geralt side-eyes the bawd, who is looking at the younger man - the whore, obviously - with disdain. "What did I tell you about biting the customers?" she says, and Geralt is nearly amused by the whore's bright grin, dangerous and feral.

"It wasn't his prick this time," he says with a shrug, and Geralt has to suppress a smile.

"I'm so sorry, sire," she says with a nervous smile of her own, approaching the bed, unbothered by the naked state of both men. "If you'd like, you could have another, free of charge."

The man peers down at the whore for a long moment, who stares back. Geralt doesn’t miss the hint of blood at the corner of the whore’s mouth. He quickly sweeps his eyes over the other man, searching for the source. His shoulder.

"Fine," he spits finally, standing up and reaching for his clothes.

The bawd calls for a woman. She explains the situation in a clipped tone and then Geralt watches, rage swirling in the pit of his stomach, as the man walks out of the room with the woman.

"Who's this?" the whore asks once he's gone, eyeing Geralt with interest and suspicion.

The bawd spins around, skirts swishing. "Shut it," she hisses. "You should be lucky I didn't sell you off to the first bastard—"

Geralt steps forward. "Geralt," he greets, "of Rivia."

He looks surprised, but not for long. "Mmm, and you're my next customer?" he asks, voice low. Geralt raises an eyebrow. "Oh no, don't worry, I only bite when you deserve it."

"Dandelion," a hiss from his side.

Geralt watches the young whore, barely eighteen if that. Dandelion, apparently. He's sitting back, shamelessly nude. For all that he's trying to appear unaffected, Geralt can smell the truth, the sour scent in the air: he's _scared_.

"How much?" he asks suddenly, and the bawd gapes at him. She quickly recollects herself.

"Well, for a night—" she starts, but Geralt wasn't asking that.

He steadies the full weight of his gaze on her. "I want him," he interrupts. "Permanently."

The scent of fear grows more potent by the second. Geralt ignores it. He's always hated it, but over the years he's grown accustomed to it, mostly because he'd been left with no choice.

"No, he's notv" she stammers. "He owes me," she says finally, eyeing Dandelion. "He stole from me, and now he's repaying the debt. He agreed to this."

Geralt very nearly wants to pull one of his swords out and slice her in half. He doesn't. "He's barely a man," he says, and she just stares. Right. One look at Dandelion, mouth a thin line, and he doubts just how much consent had been given, really. "You have two options," he continues after a long bout of silence.

Now he smells fear from both parties, different but similar. Geralt hopes the whore will forgive him for this, treating him no better than the bawd, a pawn to be used.

"You can give me your rings," he nods at her hands, "or the boy." He smiles darkly. "Your choice."

She cups her hands to her heart. "And if I don't pick?" she asks, and he's almost impressed by her voice, still steady despite the mismatched pounding of her heart.

Geralt tilts his head. "Three options," he concedes, and barely moves his hand toward his swords. He wouldn't do it. Probably, but she doesn't need to know that. She visibly startles, eyes widening.

"Fine," she says, taking a quick step back. "Take him. Not much of a loss. He was more trouble than he was worth."

Geralt is still smiling as she scurries out of the room. Only then does he let the act drop, turning to the boy. Dandelion, he reminds himself. What an odd name. As if reading his thoughts, he smiles, too bright.

"Jaskier," he says. "That was just my professional name."

He nods once. "Gather your things, Jaskier."

He's not surprised, really, that Jaskier climbs out of the bed and stands with his arms folded over his chest. He reeks of fear, but doesn't show it.

"No."

Geralt arches an eyebrow and tries not to let his amusement show. "No?" he questions.

"She had a reason for her ways," he continues, stabbing his finger in the direction of the door. Geralt idly notes that his fingers are oddly callused. "She was a terrible woman, mind you, no better a person, but she had her right to my work, given that I had no other way to earn the coin, but you." His finger switches targets, pointed directly at Geralt. "You will not have me for your own enjoyment, you—"

Geralt sighs. He doesn't have time for this. "I don't want you," he interrupts firmly, meaning it.

Jaskier was easy on the eyes, that much was true, with bright blue eyes and shaggy brown hair, tuffs of dark hair on his chest, a surprisingly strong chest. Geralt didn't let his eyes wander any lower. But again, he had his own morals, as finicky as they might be.

He had no interest in sleeping with Jaskier if he didn't want it, and Geralt could understand if he never wanted to sleep with a man again.

"Then why?" he shoots back, eyes narrowed and distrusting.

Geralt sighs again. "I needed to be paid, somehow," he says bluntly. "Your freedom is well worth it."

He's surprised by how much he means it. He knows many people, nobles and royals mostly, who own slaves. He's always disproved of the hobby and yet he was the monster, not them, for thinking every person deserved control of their own life.

Jaskier just stares, expression unreadable. Geralt nods again.

"Gather your stuff," he says, "unless you wish to stay."

Geralt knew if he left without him the bawd would likely go back on her word, revoking his freedom. Jaskier seems to be thinking the same thing, mouth twisting before he's quickly grabbing his clothes from off the floor. Once he's dressed in unexpectedly nice clothes, he's rushing around the room, stuffing clothes and a notebook in his bag.

Finished, he walks to Geralt, head held high. "I'm ready."

The bawd sneers at him on the way out and he idly files this town away in his brain, knowing he might not be warmly welcomed back. (As if he ever arrived to warm welcomes. He was lucky not to be chased out or attacked with rocks like some rabid dog.)

Jaskier, for all he stinks of fear, is glued to his side. After fetching Roach, Geralt stares at him, debating what to do.

"You'll ride with me to the next town," he says. Jaskier just nods, surprisingly obedient now that they were out of the brothel. "I'll drop you off with some coin once we reach it," he continues, expecting a reaction.

Jaskier just nods again. Geralt thinks he smells a little less like fear. Good. Better.

"Have you ridden before?" he asks, gesturing to Roach.

Jaskier eyes her. "I have. But... not for a while," he admits.

"Hmm. Just hold on," he replies. "I'll do all the work."

Jaskier's laugh is unexpected when they take off on the back of Roach.

"Oh, she’s a good horse, isn’t she?“

Geralt agrees, of course. Roach normally detests carrying two but now she's perfectly obedient, trotting down the path out of town at a decent pace.

The issue? The next town was a few days away, divided by miles of forest. Geralt could do make it without a break, undoubtedly, but he wouldn't do that to Roach or Jaskier.

After a long day of riding, Geralt pulls her off the path and climbs down with a quiet grunt. When he lifts his gaze, Jaskier is watching him.

"Hungry?" he asks. Jaskier nods. "Tired?" He nods again. Geralt pats Roach's hind. "We'll stop for the night, continue in the morning."

Jaskier slides off less gracefully, landing with a thud. Geralt notices, now, more than before (which is ironic, he guesses, since he was nude then) how thin he is, narrow shoulders and an even narrower waist. He's tall, about Geralt's height, but not nearly as stout.

"Come on," he commands gruffly, turning away. Finding a spot is easy, a decent-sized clearing near a stream works just fine.

Jaskier stands off to the side, looking unsure.

"Firewood," he says, and Jaskier looks mildly relieved to have something to do. He turns and disappears from sight. Geralt wonders idly of he'll just run off. If he does, he won't stop him, obviously, but he hopes not. Lad wouldn't survive a day in the wilderness by himself.

Jaskier returns quickly, carrying an armful of wood. Smart. Geralt looks it over.

He nods his approval, and Jaskier smiles a little, looking pleased.

Once the fire is built, Geralt points in the general direction of the stream. He hasn't seen it yet, to be fair, but he can hear it. Jaskier wanders off, clutching his only bag to his chest. Geralt sighs once he's out of sight and stands up, stretching. He needed to hunt; he had just enough food to last him a week, not him and a partner.

He grabs his swords and nods at Roach before disappearing into the woods. When he returns with two rabbits, the best he could find, Jaskier is already there. He doesn't notice him by the looks of it, speaking to Roach in a hushed voice.

He can hear him perfectly clear, given his mutations.

"I don't understand what he wants," he's saying, pressed against Roach's side. Surprisingly, she lets him, gnawing on something. Geralt squints - a treat, from his bag. He should feel angry, he thinks, that Jaskier went through his things while he was gone.

Roach snorts, finished with her treat. Jaskier nods, laughably serious. Geralt resists the urge to smile.

He steps out of the trees and Jaskier visibly startles, quickly stepping back from Roach. Geralt doesn't say anything, just nods at the fire.

Jaskier quickly sits while Geralt skins the rabbits and sets them over the fire to roast. Jaskier is quiet, watching him. He's clean, now, hair still slightly damp. He smells better too, no longer reeking of fear or another man.

“You’re the Butcher of Blaviken, aren’t you?” he asks finally.

Geralt should be used to it, being called that, but he still isn’t - might never be, he realizes. Pulling the sticks off the fire, he extends one toward Jaskier, who takes it. “I am. How did you know?”

“Some clients like to chat,” he replies breezily, taking a bite out of the meat. “White hair. Two swords. A dark horse. Just made the connections.”

Geralt hums, watching as he chews. “You really took a bite out of his shoulder earlier.”

Jaskier doesn’t look embarrassed or ashamed as he swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “He was being too rough. I warned him.”

“Then he deserved it,” he agrees.

Jaskier looks up, mouth twisting oddly. “You are not like the rumors, are you?”

“Depends, what rumors have you heard?”

Jaskier smiles, small and yet genuine, he thinks. He shouldn’t feel accomplished, being the cause of it, but he does. He tries not to think too hard about why. “All bad, I must admit,” he answers, taking another bite.

“Rumors always hold some truth,” he replies. Jaskier just shrugs. “How old are you?”

Jaskier swallows again and this time Geralt thinks to offer him his wineskin. “Eighteen.”

Suddenly Geralt wishes he had sliced down the bawd, forcing a boy to work for her. “What did you do, to owe her so much?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jaskier stares at him from across the fire. “I’m an orphan. I stole when I had to. She let me off for a while. When I turned eighteen, she demanded I pay her back.”

Geralt frowns. “You could’ve ran.”

“Blaming me?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt opens his mouth, ready to defend himself, but he just laughs. “I’m fucking with you,” he says, eyes bright. Too bright, Geralt thinks, for what he’s gone through. “When I was there, I at least had food and a warm bed at night. I decided some sacrifices were worth it.”

Geralt can’t blame him, obviously. Humans have done and endured far worse for food and a warm bed.

“Have I fucked you over, then?” he asks. “Saving you?”

Jaskier blinks, looking surprised. “No,” he says. “Thank you.”

In the morning, Jaskier is still there, curled up in Geralt’s bedroll. He stands up and stretches, back cracking angrily. He deserves it, he supposes, for daring to sleep on the ground as if he was still as young as he once was. One look at Jaskier’s thin frame and he knew he had to offer his bedroll, though.

“Wake up,” he says, gently nudging the boy with his foot.

Jaskier groans, eyelashes fluttering. He really is quite pretty, Geralt thinks, only to quickly feel guilty.

“Five more minutes?” he grumbles, and Geralt presses his lips together to conceal a smile. He nudges him again, silent, and Jaskier finally open his eyes. “You’re the worst.”

Geralt nods at the remnants of the fire. “Can you start a fire?”

“Obviously,” he replies. “I _did_ survive on my own for many years.”

Geralt snorts, stepping around him. “Start it; I’m going to wash off and then we’ll have breakfast.” He’s taken one step before:

“And then?” He turns to find Jaskier on his feet. “What about after that?”

Geralt tilts his head to the side. “We’re leaving. I told you, I’m dropping you off at the next town.”

“You—you were serious about that?” he asks, and takes a step. Geralt frowns, sniffs. The sour stench of fear was back. Jaskier licks his lips, slow, purposeful. Geralt curses under his breath; he should’ve been expecting this. “I should repay you for your kindness, at least—” Then he’s reaching out with shaky hands. Geralt’s chest seizes; humans were worse than any monster, he’d known that for a while, but this was just further confirmation.

He grabs Jaskier by the wrists. “No.”

Jaskier stares at him with a confused twist of his mouth. “You don’t want me?”

It was a complicated question, really. Under other circumstances, Geralt would hardly be turning away a willing pretty face. That was the thing, though—Jaskier wasn’t _willing_. He thought he _owed_ him. Just the realization made him feel sick.

“ _You_ don’t want _me_ ,” he says instead, releasing his hands, “and that means something.”

Jaskier blinks. “I don’t…”

“Stay here, start the fire,” he says. “I’ll be back.”

Jaskier only stares. With a sigh, Geralt turns and grabs his bag before heading off toward the stream.

When he returns, Jaskier is sitting by the fire. “I’m sorry,” he says as Geralt sits down, pulling some dried meat from his bag.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he replies gruffly, ripping the meat in half. “Here, eat it all.”

Jaskier takes a small bite. “I don’t understand why you’re helping me,” he confesses a while later, once they’re both done eating. He sounds—frustrated, almost angry. “What do you get out of it?”

Geralt hums. “I don’t need to get anything out of it.”

“But that doesn’t—” Jaskier huffs. “That isn’t how this works.”

Geralt stands up and walks to his bedroll, packing it up. “You don’t need to be scared of me, Jaskier,” he says. He knows it’s asking a lot, given who he was. “All I want is for you to safely get to the next town.”

“And you mentioned coins?”

Geralt walks to Roach, attaching his bedroll to her side. Turning around, he nods. “I’ll give you enough to get you started,” he confirms. “No point in dropping you off just to die of starvation.”

Jaskier stares at him, eyes narrowed and distrusting. “How close is it? The nearest town?”

“We should be there in four days, give or take.”

He nods, standing up, a determined set to his jaw. “Betray me and you’ll regret it.”

Geralt tilts his head, eyes flickering to Jaskier’s boots. “What, you’ll stab me with that dagger of yours?”

“Wh—” The stench of fear is stronger suddenly, nearly too much for his nose. “You _knew?_ ”

He nods, grabbing his bags and securing them alongside his bedroll. He grabs Jaskier’s bag last, adding it to the bulk. “I did,” he answers. “Don’t worry; keep it. I don’t mind.”

“Because you know I’m no match for you,” he grumbles.

Geralt sighs, turning back around. “Because you should feel safe.”

Jaskier stares at him, lips pressed together in a thin line. A challenge glints in his eyes. “Prove it,” he says, tilting his head back, chin up. “You know your way around a dagger, don’t you? Better than I do, undoubtedly. Show me.”

He snorts, already turning back. “No.”

“If you actually care what happens to me, you will,” Jaskier says, and that gives him pause. He looks back at him. “Doesn’t matter if you drop me off here, or in that town, I’m as good as dead. Not if I can defend myself.”

Geralt sighs. “How do I know you won’t use what I teach you to try and kill me? Steal all my money and run off?”

“As if I could,” he remarks, smirking, looking more like the whore that had boldly and shamelessly bitten a client. “But I guess you’d just have to trust me.”

They travel for a while before Geralt finally pulls them off to the side and jumps down. Jaskier looks confused, “It isn’t even growing dark yet.”

“Did you want to learn how to fight or not?”

Jaskier blinks once before nodding quickly, joining him on the ground with far less grace. Geralt grabs his arm, steadying him. “That will need to be the first thing you learn,” he says. At Jaskier’s frown, he releases his arm. “You’re as graceful as a baby duckling.”

“Rude,” he remarks. “But fair.”

Geralt doesn’t smile even if he wants to.

They find a decent spot after searching for a few minutes, far enough from the main road to be fairly safe and open enough to allow in quite a bit of sun. Not to mention, space for sparring.

As soon as their stuff is unpacked, Geralt beckons for Jaskier. He quickly joins him. “Your dagger,” he says, and Jaskier visibly hesitates. “Fucking—” With a deep sigh, he grabs one of his swords. “Hold this if it makes you feel better.”

Jaskier blinks once before shaking his head. “No, it’s fine.” He pulls his dagger out of his boot, offering it.

The dagger is small, surprisingly sharp when Geralt lightly touches the tip with his finger. He didn’t get the impression Jaskier sharpened it much, meaning it was probably sharp from the first time he got it, meaning he hadn’t used it much - if at all.

“A good size for you,” he says, handing it back. “Show me how you hold it.”

Jaskier nods, adjusting the dagger in his grip. Geralt hums; he held it too tight, his wrist twisted the wrong way. Reaching out, he silently fixes his grip. Jaskier tenses under his touch, understandably so, he supposes, but he doesn’t pull away.

“There,” he says. “How you hold your weapon can be just as important as how you use it. I could’ve easily knocked that out of your grip.”

Jaskier looks mildly disappointed. In himself, if he had to guess. “I’ve never actually used it,” he admits, as if it wasn’t obvious.

He nods. “That should be considered a blessing,” he replies.

“I wanted to,” Jaskier continues, too fast, like he’s forcing the words out, “I would get a client and—and I’d think about it. I kept it in my bedside drawer. If they were too rough, if they called me cruel words, I’d think about it.” He isn’t looking at Geralt, now, but staring at the dagger. “I _wanted_ to. But I couldn’t. I was too much of a coward.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say. “You aren’t a coward; you were protecting yourself. Nothing good would’ve come of you killing any of them.”

Jaskier looks up. “You’ve killed before.” It wasn’t a question. “What does it feel like?”

“Necessity,” he answers instantly. “Survival.”

Jaskier sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. He really was a sight; Geralt has to fight to keep his thoughts from straying in the wrong direction. He wouldn’t allow them to, not after knowing what Jaskier went through.

“Is that what you’re going to teach me?” he asks finally. “To only fight to survive?”

Geralt tilts his head to the side. “I would hope that’s all you’d use it for, but I won’t stop you from doing what you want.”

Jaskier laughs, a bit sharp, lacking any real humor. “You’d be the first.”

He knew a lot of pain, physical and otherwise. He’s been ran out of towns with rocks, if not worse. He’s been betrayed more times than he count, underpaid or scammed entirely. He’s had lovers cringe when he took off his shirt, their eyes lingering on his scars for a beat too long. Through all of that, he’s never known the kind of pain Jaskier had experienced. To be forced to do something, all for the sake of his own survival, kept trapped like a slave, an _animal_.

He wishes he knew the words to say to make all the pain go away, though it was unlikely _any_ words could do that.

“Here,” he says roughly, stepping back, putting a bit more space between them. “Try to stab me.”

Jaskier blinks at him. “Huh?”

“Teaching is easier when you know what you’re starting with,” he explains. “Stab me.”

Jaskier looks mildly amused as he squeezes the hilt of his dagger, visible to Geralt’s well-trained eyes. “I will be quite put out if you die on me, you know,” he remarks. Geralt grins, and he realizes too late that he can’t remember the last time he did that.

“I give you consent to take all my money if I die,” he says, and Jaskier’s laugh is lighter, more genuine.

“And your horse?” he barters.

Geralt clicks his tongue. “Don’t push it.”

An hour later, Jaskier is splayed out across the ground, taking heaving breaths of air. Geralt feels bad, he really does. He might’ve forgotten humans couldn’t keep up with him. Probably because he never had to _worry_ about that before.

He squats beside him. “You nearly got me that last time,” he says, and Jaskier snorts.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His dagger is discarded a few feet away from their last tango; Jaskier _had_ gotten closer than any other time, to be fair. Geralt had been impressed by the feral look in his eyes, not unlike when he’d first seen him under that bastard, blood at the corner of his mouth.

Still, he’d been able to take the dagger out of his hand in the end.

“A few more lessons and you’ll be able to defend yourself against most men,” he assures him, shifting to sit down properly in the dirt. Jaskier eyes him.

“But not you,” he says. Not a question.

Geralt shrugs. “I’m not like most men.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch, the start of a small smile. “Might want to keep an eye on that ego of yours,” he remarks, finally sitting up with a grunt. “Every muscle in my body is sore, even muscles I didn’t know I _had_.”

He remembers, vaguely, how he had been in his shoes a long, long time ago. A young boy, forced to learn how to fight. Many nights he would retire feeling like death, wondering if his _actual_ death was just around the corner. No, he’d been a survivor in the end, for better or worse.

“I can help,” he says, surprised when the words escape his own mouth without permission.

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “How?”

“I—” Geralt clears his throat, remembering many nights with Eskel or Lambert or both. “Turn your back toward me.”

Jaskier grows tense, hands curling into fists on top of his knees. Geralt doesn’t point it out, or say a word, just waits. Finally he seems to make a decision, jaw clicking, as he turns away from Geralt.

“Good,” he says. “You shouldn’t trust people where you can’t see them.”

He lets out a strained laugh. “But you’re an exception?”

“For now,” he confirms, reaching out and pausing. “Can I touch you?”

Jaskier is silent for a long time. “I’ll stab you if you even think about—”

“I know,” he interrupts, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible. He starts by placing his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders; he stiffens. He waits for him to relax, which takes a good three minutes, before he moves his hands down and presses his thumbs into his back, rolling the muscles underneath them. Jaskier gasps.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That feels—good.”

Geralt hums as he continues to work on the tense muscles in his back. “When I was young, my brothers and I would end most nights feeling the way you do.”

“Brothers?”

Geralt presses a little harder with his thumbs. Jaskier seems to like it, tilting his head back with a pleased grunt. “Not by blood,” he replies, “but in the ways that count.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, we would usually help each other out like this.”

“I wish I could be like you,” Jaskier mutters, and Geralt doesn’t reply, not quite sure what he means. “You’re so—strong. I bet you’re not scared of anything.”

He nearly laughs. “Fear is a part of life, for every living creature.”

“Fine,” Jaskier concedes with a short laugh of his own, “but you know what I mean. No one could force you to—to _do_ or be something you didn’t want to be.” Geralt leans to the side, peering around Jaskier; he was picking at some rough skin on his fingertips.

He has a lot to say to that, surprisingly. He had never asked to be the Butcher of Blaviken, after all, but he shelves that for now, more focused on Jaskier. “Your fingertips are rough, and obviously not from a blade.”

Jaskier startles. “Oh. You noticed?”

“I did,” he confirms, moving his hands lower on Jaskier’s back. He’s careful not to dip too low. He doesn’t ask any questions. Doesn’t want to force him to talk if he doesn’t want to.

His shoulders sag after a while. “I used to play the lute,” he whispers. Geralt is surprised, of course, but he doesn’t say anything still, just waits for him to continue. “I stole it. The lute. This man went through town one summer and he dumbly just— _left_ it there, peeking out of the back of his cart. I knew I shouldn’t have. I intended to sell it at first.”

Geralt doesn’t judge. He couldn’t if he wanted to. He had done far worse. “But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” he says. “I got it and I was just messing around, you know, but then.” He pauses, takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know. I felt— _free_. When I started working for _her_ , she took it from me. Probably sold it off.”

“Were you any good?” he asks, and Jaskier barks out a laugh. Already Geralt knows he looks like when he laughs, the small crinkles around his eyes.

“I was okay. I watched the local bards that went through town and tried to copy what they did.”

Geralt’s hands slide up his back, starting from the top again. “Did you sing, like them?”

“I never really tried,” he admits. “I wrote some stuff, but I never sang any of it.”

Geralt nods. “I’ve encountered many bards in my lifetime,” he says. “Most of them are bastards.”

Jaskier laughs again, and he shouldn't care—that he was the cause of his laughter, but he does. “Bastardy enough to try and bite off another man’s prick?” he asks, twisting to look at him. His hands drop from his back.

His lips twitch. “She wasn’t lying,” he says, unable to hide the hint of amusement in his voice.

Jaskier grins, all teeth. “I made ‘im bleed, at least, but sadly he left with the damned thing in one piece.”

Geralt doesn’t know if he’s more impressed or worried. A mix of both. “I think she was an idiot,” he says, and Jaskier tilts his head to the side, “for ever thinking you could be caged.”

After dinner, Geralt is prepared for another night on the hard forest floor. He’s survived worse, after all, but Jaskier _isn’t sleeping_.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, sitting up. In the dark, he can still see Jaskier clearly, though he can’t see him. He’s watching him with a deep frown. “What is it?”

“You don’t have to give me your bedroll,” he says, and he has the audacity to sound _angry_. “I’m not some delicate flower.”

Geralt grunts, “I have never thought that,” he assures him. “But you are thin, and it’s cold. You need it more than I do.”

“That’s—” Jaskier’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clanking. “Why are you _like_ that?”

He has no idea what he’s talking about. “Like what?”

“ _Nice_ ,” he answers instantly.

Geralt blinks, genuinely surprised. He isn’t sure he’s ever been called _that_ , or complimented at all, really. A few flattering remarks about his appearance, maybe, but from too long ago to remember. “I’m being decent,” he says.

“Yeah, well, humans aren’t decent,” he replies bitterly.

Geralt hums. “Good thing I’m not human, then,” he says, turning away and laying back down, arm folded under his head for a makeshift pillow. He can feel Jaskier’s eyes on his back. “Go to sleep.”

“I—” A deep sigh. “Goodnight, Geralt,” he says instead.

In the morning, Jaskier is gone.

Geralt isn’t proud of his first reaction—pure panic. He should know better (“ _panicking will just get you killed,_ ” Vesemir used to say) but had he simply left on his own? Or worse? Was he taken? He would’ve heard if he was taken, right?

He searches the surrounding woods; no sign of him. The best he can pick up is his lingering smell, familiar by now, but that eventually fades out near the stream. A part of him hopes he did leave on his own, just to know he was safe.

_For how long?_ his brain whispers. _The woods are never safe at night._

Cursing, he returns to camp and starts packing quickly. Roach snorts as he ties his bags to her side. She is unharmed, at least. One look confirms no one had even _tried_ to take her.

Only once he’s on the back of Roach, urging her forward, does he stop to think maybe he shouldn’t continue his search for him. If he did leave on his own, he wouldn’t want to be found. He was young, but an adult.

If he wants to leave, Geralt has no right to stop him, but—it isn’t _safe_. They were still three, four days from town and that was on horseback.

Jaskier seemed smart. He would’ve known it was safer to just wait it out and sneak away closer to town.

“Fuck,” he curses again, hanging his head and rubbing at the throbbing spot between his eyebrows.

He remembers, long ago, when he first took to the road, telling himself again and again that he didn’t _need_ or want anyone. Eskel and Lambert. Vesemir. They were his family. They were all he needed, and perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. He never had to worry about them.

In all that time he had adhered to that rule. He would make friendly if the situation called for it, had a few sparse acquaintances across the Continent, but that was it. He didn’t need friends. He _especially_ didn’t need a lover.

Friends, lovers, they were all just liabilities.

Shaking his head, he urges Roach on. He would find Jaskier, and if he told him to go, he would listen.

Geralt’s been riding for just twenty, thirty minutes when he smells it—blood. His heart nearly bursts out of his chest as he turns Roach to follow the smell. He finds the first droplet of blood near the main road. Not far ahead is a second and a third.

Frowning, he follows them.

There’s no way to know for certain if the blood is Jaskier’s. He hopes it isn’t, but at least it isn’t a lot. He could handle losing this much.

After following the main road for a while, the blood diverts off from it, disappearing into the woods. Geralt presses his lips together and turns Roach to follow it.

It isn’t long before he hears it: Jaskier’s voice, painfully familiar, shouting, “I will fucking _kill_ you, you fucking—”

He’s off Roach before he can even think to move, scrambling to follow the sound of Jaskier’s voice. A sharp sound of skin on skin and silence follows. Geralt runs faster. He pushes through a bunch of branches and stops at the sight of three men on top of Jaskier, his cheek red.

One of them jumps off of him, spinning around, “Who the fuck are—?”

Before he can finish his sentence, Geralt’s sword is slicing through his flesh. His head drops to the ground and rolls. The oldest of the men is cowardly enough to scream; Geralt sinks his sword into his gut, swiftly yanking it out and rounding on the last man, the youngest.

“I—we didn’t think he was with someone,” he stammers, as if that helps, as if Jaskier’s consent wasn’t enough on its own.

Jaskier spits blood out of his mouth, back to himself, eyes fiery. “Even though I _told_ you.”

“We thought you were lying!” He’s dumb enough to turn when he shouts at him; Geralt is almost disappointed by how quickly he dies.

He rushes to Jaskier’s side and drops to his knees. “Blood,” he says. “You’re bleeding.”

Jaskier smiles, a bit of blood staining his lips. He lifts a hand and opens it. A small cut across his palm. “Made sure to get nicked in the fight for my dagger. I knew you’d find me.”

Geralt blinks and suddenly he thinks he would be crying, if he allowed himself that luxury, if it hadn’t been beaten out of him as a child. He takes Jaskier’s hand in his own, pressing their palms together to ease the bleeding. Jaskier winces, but doesn’t complain.

“I thought you had left,” he says.

Jaskier frowns. “I wouldn’t leave like that.”

Geralt nods. He stands and helps Jaskier to his own feet. “Go ahead. I’ll be right there. Roach isn’t far.”

“Okay,” he says. He’s scared, he can smell it, but he doesn’t show it. Geralt watches as he disappears through the trees before crouching at every dead body. Finally he finds Jaskier’s dagger, tucked in the waistband of the last man’s trousers.

When he makes his way back to Jaskier and Roach, he turns the dagger over in his hand. “Here. I think this belongs to you.”

Jaskier takes it by the hilt. “I—” Geralt isn’t expecting the sudden sob, but he should’ve, probably. Jaskier drops the dagger, burying his face in his hands. For a moment he doesn’t know what to do, has never been good at comforting others, has never had to learn. Jaskier sniffles, shoulders trembling. “Just—hug me, you fucking idiot.”

He startles before quickly stepping forward. “This won’t make it worse?” he questions. Jaskier laughs wetly, shaking his head.

“I—I don’t think so,” he says, face still buried in his hands. “Not if it’s you.”

Geralt ignores the pride he feels, at knowing Jaskier trusts him. Slowly he brings his arms up and wraps them around his trembling form. As soon as he’s secure in his arms, the trembling eases.

“I couldn’t do it,” he sobs against his shoulder. “I had the _chance_. I had the dagger in my fucking hand and—”

Geralt cradles the back of his head. “That isn’t a bad thing, Jaskier,” he says. “You aren’t a killer.”

“But you did it,” he mutters. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

Geralt presses his lips together. “Because they were going to hurt you.”

He half-expects Jaskier to mention his moniker, to ask about Blaviken. He doesn’t, instead he hugs him a little tighter.

They don’t return to their old camp, instead they continue on until nightfall. Jaskier is nearly falling off Roach by then, barely able to keep his eyes open. He can guess it has to do with earlier, which must’ve taken a lot of fight out of him, and doesn’t mention it, just pulls them off the road and starts to set up camp.

“How did they get you without me noticing?” he asks once the fire is going.

Jaskier turns red, ducking his head. “I was going to wash off. I didn’t want to wake you. My mistake, obviously.”

“Don’t do that again,” he says firmly. “If you’re going to leave, wake me up.”

He nods. “I’m eighteen and can’t even take care of myself,” he says, bitter and dark.

“You don’t have to,” he says, “I’ll take care of you,” and then freezes once he realizes what he’s said. He feels Jaskier’s eyes on him. Finally he looks up. Jaskier is watching him with a frown, legs drawn up to his chest.

“Until you drop me off in town,” he says, and the bitterness is still there. “Then I’ll be a distant memory. A thing to add to your list of good deeds.”

Geralt opens his mouth, closes it. That isn’t it. It was, in the beginning, he supposes. He just wanted to help the poor kid and now—well, now he’s actually grown fond of him. The town is still a few days away and yet that feels too soon. Any amount of time would feel too soon, he worries.

“I’ll stay with you for the first couple of days,” he says eventually. “Make sure you have everything you need.”

Jaskier looks away. “Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t sound thankful at all. Geralt doesn’t know how to fix it, how to get rid of the dark cloud that’s settled over them and out of nowhere. “I’m tired,” he announces suddenly, standing up and walking to his— _Geralt’s_ —bedroll.

He doesn’t say goodnight. Geralt watches him for a while, hoping he’ll figure out what to say before he falls asleep.

He doesn’t, and soon enough Jaskier is asleep, evident by his soft snores.

“Fuck,” he whispers to the sky.

The next day is spent quietly. They travel for as long as they can, safely, before Geralt repeats history, pulling them off to the side and jumping down. Jaskier does the same. He’s silent as they set up camp and quiet still as he scurries off to collect firewood.

Geralt misses his rambling, even if it was mostly sarcastic remarks or self-loathing.

When Jaskier returns with the firewood, he sets the stack down with a slight wince. Geralt quickly rushes to his side, grabbing his wrist. Jaskier startles, peering at him with wide eyes.

Turning his hand over, he curses colorfully at the sight of Jaskier’s cut, the skin around it swollen and bright red. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” he replies, and Geralt resists the urge to yell at him, scold him for being an idiot. Instead he points at the ground.

“Sit.”

Jaskier silently obeys, sitting down. Geralt rummages through his bag until he finds the right ointment and joins him on the ground. He grabs Jaskier’s hand and places it, palm up, on his thigh. The ointment is minty, strong, as he opens the vial and dips his fingers in. Jaskier hisses as he smears the salve across his palm.

“You can’t stay with me,” Geralt says suddenly.

He doesn’t dare look at Jaskier, isn’t sure he could handle it. “I could,” he argues. “You just don’t want me to.”

“It isn’t safe,” he replies. “Witchers are supposed to travel alone for a reason.”

Jaskier laughs humorlessly. “Like a wolf. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.”

His mouth twitches. “Wolves are actually very social creatures.”

Another laugh, slightly less humorless than the last. Finished, he closes the vial and sets it aside. Jaskier pulls his hand back and stares at his palm. “I want to stay with you,” he says, whispers, really.

Geralt ignores the ache in his chest. “I know,” he says, just as quietly. “But you can’t. I’ll stay, like I promised, but only for a bit. After that, we’ll need to part ways.”

Jaskier say anything. He supposes that might be for the better.

They don’t talk much over the course of the next few days. Geralt keeps wanting to, for once in his life, but he doesn’t know what to say. When they finally happen upon the town, visible in the distance, he feels Jaskier tense behind him.

“Well,” Jaskier says. “I guess this is it.”

Geralt just grunts. It isn’t, not yet, he’d stay for a couple days like promised but right now he doesn’t think that’d provide much comfort.

They continue on until the sound of the town starts to travel to them, distant clacking and chatter of townsfolk. Geralt jumps off and offers a hand to Jaskier, who ignores it in favor of dropping gracelessly to the ground.

He sighs, turning away and leading them the rest of the way.

A few folks stop and stare as they enter the town, no doubt because of Geralt’s reputation. He’s used to it, of course, has been for a while. He supposes Jaskier is not, because he bristles, standing taller and sneers at every one of them.

“Fuck off,” he shouts and most of them at least have the decency to quickly look the other way.

Geralt smiles a little. He might not have been good with a dagger, and not very threatening in general, but there was something about him that made you think twice. He had felt it in the brothel for the first time, that almost feral energy about him.

He can only hope that’d be enough to protect him from now on.

“Bastards act like they’ve never seen a horse and two men before,” he grumbles.

Geralt hums his agreement. The local inn is easy enough to find. The innkeeper is like every other innkeeper he’s ever seen, mostly in that they stare at him with unconcealed disdain. Jaskier pushes past him, head held high.

“Two rooms,” he says.

The innkeeper—a young man—frowns down at him. “We only have one room left.”

Jaskier stares up at him, a challenge in his eyes. “We’ll take it.”

“Very well,” he replies. Jaskier steps out of the way then, allowing Geralt to pay for it. The room is as crappy as every other room Geralt’s ever stayed in. Jaskier sighs heavily as he walks to the only bed in the room and drops on it.

Geralt doesn’t miss the irony of having given his bedroll to Jaskier every night for a week just to have to continue the tradition.

“I’ll be back. Stay here.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “Is this where you abandon me?”

“I need to replenish my goods,” he says, a little sharper than he intends, but _fuck_ , does Jaskier think this is easy for him? “If you want to come with me, you can. Otherwise, stay here.”

Jaskier turns away and flops back on the bed, tucking his hands under his head. “I’ll be here.”

Geralt lingers for a few seconds, just to make sure he doesn’t change his mind, before leaving. The market is busy, bustling with folks crowding around carts selling weapons or jewelry or clothing. He walks through the market, buying what he needs, when suddenly he stops.

At one cart in particular there is an array of instruments. Geralt shouldn’t, he knows, it’ll be wasteful and his funds are limited enough with what he’s already planning to give to Jaskier.

But as he takes a step closer, just to look, he tells him, he sees the lute and curses under his breath. It’s beautiful, dark wood with fucking _dandelions_ etched into it, like the universe was laughing at him.

“Are you interested?” the man behind the cart asks, all charm.

Geralt grunts, “I shouldn’t,” he says.

“Ah,” the man tilts his head. He’s handsome enough. Geralt kind of wishes he felt— _anything_ , here, looking at him. “Let me guess, thinking of a gift for a lover?”

He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Not quite.”

“Someone you’re pursuing then,” he remarks, and doesn’t even give Geralt time to correct him. Weirdly, he doesn’t feel the urge to. “Which instrument are you looking at?”

Geralt nods silently at the lute.

“Ohh, good choice,” he says, picking it up and cradling it with care. “How about this, I’ll give you a deal of a lifetime to help with your indecision.”

He narrows his eyes, distrusting. “Why?” he asks gruffly.

“Because you look like you need it,” he replies with a grin.

He knows Jaskier is asleep when he returns because he hears his soft snores through the door. Quietly, he opens the door. Not quiet enough, evidently, because he hears the rustle of sheets and then, “Geralt?”

No point in hiding it. He turns around. Jaskier takes one look at the lute before his eyes snap to his face. He looks— _angry_. Furious, actually.

Fuck, how had he fucked up _again?_

“You didn’t,” he says, and he can’t figure out the tone of his voice. “I beg to stay with you and you say I can’t,” he continues, and now it’s just pure rage. “Then you have the nerve to turn up with a fucking _lute_ for me?”

Geralt takes a step toward the bed. “It’s a gift,” he says lamely, setting it down at the foot of the bed. “I thought—”

“You’re a fucking _asshole_ , Geralt of Rivia,” he interrupts, off the bed and stomping to him, a finger pressed to his chest. “You think you’re some savior, is that it? Afraid if I stick around I’ll actually see the _real_ you?”

Geralt snarls, “I’m trying to _protect_ you.”

“By what?” he replies. “By deciding my life for me? _Just_ like—” He pokes him in the chest, hard “— _everyone_ fucking else?”

Geralt doesn’t understand why _Jaskier_ doesn’t understand. “You might die,” he says, hoping he’ll just _understand._ “I can’t always protect you. If you stay with me and die, _because_ of me, I—” His mouth snaps shut. He takes a deep breath and starts over, “I won’t be able to forgive myself, Jaskier.”

“I understand, Geralt,” he says, but he doesn’t think he does. “But I want to take that chance. I want to stay with you.”

He doesn’t know what to say, how to convince him. “You’d just get in the way,” he says before he can stop himself, his chest aching.

Jaskier takes a quick step back, eyes wide with hurt. Geralt wants to reach for him, to apologize, but he doesn’t. If this is what it takes, fine. All he cared about was Jaskier’s safety.

“I see,” he says, slowly, evenly.

Geralt nods curtly. “You’ll be safer away from me,” he says. Jaskier sharply turns away and grabs the lute. Geralt watches, a little confused, as he walks to the door. “Where are you going?”

“Do you really care?” he asks. Before he can reply, Jaskier sighs. “Time to see if I can make it as a bard, seeing as I’ll be on my own sooner rather than later and your _charity_ ,” he says it with disgust, “will only carry me so far.”

He opens his mouth, unsure of what he’ll say, but it doesn’t matter in the end. Jaskier is already gone.

As he sits on the bed, face buried in his hands, Jaskier’s playing—clumsy and inexperienced—carries up to him. He doesn’t want to leave him. He _has_ to. It was what came with the territory. Eventually Jaskier would realize it was for the better.

Geralt doesn’t remember falling asleep but when he opens his eyes his first thought is: _fuck_ , because Jaskier is nowhere to be seen. He thinks back to the forest, to the men who had tried to assault him, because fucking _humans_ , right, and is throwing open the door before he can register his feet touching the floor.

He nearly trips over Jaskier in the hallway. “What the _fuck?”_ he shouts, louder than he means to, relief flooding through his veins like a drug.

Jaskier visibly startles, looking up with wide eyes. His lute is next to him. “Oh. Hi.” There’s a bit of dried—something in his hair. Tomato, maybe. He seems to notice where Geralt is looking because he grimaces. “Yeah, they didn’t quite enjoy my playing the way I hoped they would.”

Geralt doesn’t care about any of that. He drops to his knees in front of him. “Why the fuck are you out here?”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he replies easily. “I knew you’d force me to take the bed too.”

Geralt nearly laughs, hysterical. “You scared the fucking crap out of me,” he hisses.

Jaskier doesn’t look scared, doesn’t smell of fear. He isn’t scared of him, not even a little bit, not the way he had been just a week earlier. Realizing that somehow drains him of his rage, making his shoulders sag.

“Come on,” he says, standing up and offering a hand. He’s secretly delighted when Jaskier actually takes it. He tries not to think about the fact he’s probably just too exhausted to throw a fit. “Get some rest,” he nods at the bed once they’re in the room.

Jaskier pointedly doesn’t let go of his hand. “No.”

He sighs. Perhaps he _wasn’t_ too tired to be a brat. “You look like death on legs, Jaskier. Just sleep.”

“I will,” he replies, and then he grins that feral fucking grin, “if you join me.”

Geralt rips his hand away. “ _No_.”

“Please, Geralt,” he pleads, and suddenly he looks so young, eyes wide. “I don’t want to— _do_ anything. Just sleep with me.”

He stares at him, trying to decide how he can wiggle his way out of this, when Jaskier steps closer, grabbing his hand again. He lets him, just watches silently as he squeezes his hand.

“I only have a night or two left with you,” he says. “Please.”

Geralt thinks he might just prefer the bratty version of Jaskier more. At least that one hurts his heart less. “Okay,” he concedes.

Jaskier’s eyes brighten, bluer than any ocean or sky he’s ever seen. He lets Jaskier tug him to the bed and joins him on top of the sheets, as Jaskier doesn’t seem interested in them at all, just— _stares_ at him with their heads propped on the same pillow, so close he can feel each breath Jaskier takes and exhales.

He knows. He knows he’s falling, too fast, too deep. He knows he should leave, now, before Jaskier is hurt. He should be a better man.

But he can’t. For once in his life he just wants to be selfish. _Is that really so bad?_ he thinks, recalling all the times Vesemir had chided him for _caring_ too much. For letting his heart get in the way. You have to be detached, he used to say, if you want to survive.

Geralt thinks he might be okay with dying if it means this, Jaskier staring at him like he was _worthy_ , not a butcher or a monster in human skin.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Jaskier smiles slightly, eyes glistening with tears. “I’ll miss you,” he says.

Geralt wants to scream. Instead he nods, shifts a little closer. He doesn’t dare say he’ll miss him too.

He doesn’t sleep. As Jaskier snores, he carefully climbs out of the bed and starts gathering his things. He pretends like his heart isn’t shattering with every move.

Once he has everything, he walks to the bedside table and fishes out his coin pouch. He opens it. Pauses. Closes it.

He places it on the table before turning around and walking to the door. He stops. Don’t do it, he thinks, but he does. He looks back. Jaskier is still asleep, shaggy brown hair splayed across the pillow.

Geralt curses under his breath and turns back around. The door shuts behind him with a quiet creak. He waits for a moment. No sound of movement.

With a nod to himself, he rushes down the hall. The innkeeper looks surprised to see him off. “Your companion isn’t going with you?”

“No,” he replies, “but he’ll have the money for the night.”

With that, he slips out of the inn and barely makes it two steps before he feels like he can’t breathe. He ignores it, forcing his feet to _keep moving_. He feels a little better, barely, when he’s reunited with Roach. She blinks at him. Always too smart for a horse.

“Yeah, we’re on our own again,” he says. “Sorry.”

Geralt can only hope he’ll cross paths with Jaskier again, someday, but on the other hand he isn’t so sure he could take the heartbreak of leaving him again.

Shaking his head, he shrugs his bag off and starts to tie it to Roach’s side when he hears a commotion from inside the inn. He should’ve known. He probably did know, looking back. Turning toward the inn, he sees a flurry of movement and then Jaskier is throwing himself at him. He doesn’t weigh much but the shock is enough to make him stumble back a few steps, dropping his bag.

“What the—?” he starts to ask and then notices Jaskier’s not wearing any shoes, his hair wild and sticking up in a million different directions.

Pulling back, Jaskier glares at him with pure fire in his eyes. “You were actually going to leave me like that? Without even a warming?”

“I thought—” He swallows. “I thought it would be easier.”

Jaskier stares at him for so long, silent, unblinking, that he actually starts to feel uncomfortable. Finally Jaskier moves, and he’s surprisingly fast, slamming their lips together before Geralt can react. When his brain starts working again, his thoughts are painfully conflicting:

_Stop him_ , one part of his brain whispers,

_Never stop_ , the other part whispers,

“Take me with you,” is whispered against his lips. Geralt forces them apart, gripping both of Jaskier’s arms. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me I don’t know what I want,” he continues, a determined set to his jaw.

Geralt breathes in, hard, through his nose. “You’re like a duckling,” he says. “Imprinting on me because I’m the first person to—”

“I will literally kick you in your balls if you finish that sentence,” he interrupts. Geralt knows better than to doubt him, teeth clanking together as his mouth snaps shut. Jaskier reaches up, slowly, to touch his face. His touch is gentle, exploring.

He doesn’t remember ever being touched like that.

“I know we haven’t known each other that long,” he’s saying, thumbs brushing across the stubble on his cheeks, “but I _know_ what I want. I want to get to know you better.”

Geralt swallows around the painful lump in his throat. He could practically imagine the look of disapproval on Vesemir’s face. “You shouldn’t,” he mutters. “I’m not all that complex, really.”

“That’s what the rumors say,” he agrees with a small smile, “but I’ve never believed them.”

Geralt’s hands twitch by his sides. It’s as if Jaskier notices, pressing up against his front with that same smile. He looks so much _older_ , suddenly, like a man with far more knowledge than any eighteen could possibly have, eyes bright.

“You don’t have to be alone, Geralt. I know you think you do, but _I_ used to think I would die back there, alone.” Jaskier leans forward, not quite kissing him, just a tease. “But then you showed up and I—I think we were destined to meet.”

Geralt laughs, low and a little forced. “Destiny is a load of crap.”

“Maybe,” he replies easily. “Or maybe not.”

Then he’s kissing him again, even more firmly than before, hands on the side of his neck. Geralt should fight it, should’ve been fighting the pull he felt to Jaskier since the moment he saw him. Destiny is a load of crap, he’s been sure of that for so long, but now he’s questioning everything he’s ever thought or known or _felt_ because the way Jaskier feels under his hands is unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

Like he was _meant_ to be there, meant to be with him.

Pulling back, he rests their foreheads together. “You’re young, Jaskier,” he says. “You shouldn’t—” He pauses, tugging him closer by his hips. “Traveling with me is a death wish.”

“Death wish or not,” Jaskier whispers, “it’s my choice to make, and I choose to stay with you.”

Geralt nearly laughs, or sobs, he isn’t sure. He kisses him again.

“I’ve never quite understood why they call you the Butcher of Blaviken,” he says, later. They were far from the town and Jaskier no longer rides with him but on his own horse, a white thing with just as much attitude as him.

It’s a good thing, him having his own horse, in case of trouble, but he can’t help missing the way his arms had felt around his waist.

Geralt ignores the ache in his chest at the moniker he’s never been able to outrun. “I slaughtered a bunch of men in Blaviken,” he replies evenly. “Pretty straightforward, I’d say.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “But you didn’t do it because you _wanted_ to,” he says, and he knows he’s pouting without even having to look. “The rumors are all wrong, painting you out as some bastard who only cares about himself and kills for fun.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he simply shrugs. “Truth rarely makes history.”

“Well, I’ve decided I’m going to right this wrong, since no one else will,” Jaskier says from his side. Geralt looks at him, finally. His jaw is set with determination.

He feels a sudden burst of fondness. “Are you now?”

“My first song - my first original song - will be singing of your praises,” he replies brightly.

Geralt somehow already knows the song will be painfully annoying and yet he will love it.


End file.
